The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories (14 page)

"Choop!” barked Mr. Armitage, so threateningly that she jumped, and the bottle of nail polish rolled across the floor. “Get off that desk and lay out the agendas for the W.O.A.P. meeting."

"Where is he?” she said fearfully. “I thought I heard his voice, but it was sort of shrill and far away. He's—he's not
haunting
me, is he? I swear I never meant to upset the card index."

"It's all right—he's in here,” said Mark comfortingly. “He's been turned into a ladybird. You hurry up and get those things laid out in the Board Room—I can hear people coming."

Members of the World Organization of Agricultural Producers were coming up the stairs, talking in a lot of different languages.

"And where is our esteemed chairman?” Mr. Svendsen, a tall Swedish farmer, asked Miss Choop.

"He's there,” she replied tremulously, indicating the matchbox. Mr. Svendsen raised his eyebrows. They all filed into the Board Room, and Mark took his father's place holding the matchbox. Miss Choop supplied him with an amplifier.

"Order, gentlemen,” said Mr. Armitage shrilly from his perch. “I call upon the secretary to read the minutes from the last meeting."

Several of the delegates turned pale and asked each other if it was ventriloquism. A Latin-American delegate fainted dead away.

Mr. Armitage was a very efficient chairman and bustled his meeting through several motions without giving the startled delegates any time for argument.

"Item Six,” he said. “Spraying crops of underdeveloped territories from helicopters. Ah, yes, we have received tenders from two different firms manufacturing insecticides, one British, one Russian. Both their prices are about the same, so it remains to see which of their products is the more effective."

Heated discussion broke out. It seemed that this was a matter about which the delegates felt very strongly. They shouted in their different languages, gesticulated, and jumped up and down. As far as Mark could make out, the opposing groups were evenly matched.

"There are representatives of the two firms outside with samples of insect powders which they wish to demonstrate,” said Miss Choop. “Shall I ask them in?"

"I hope that will not be necessary,” said Mr. Armitage hurriedly. “We'll have a vote."

The voting was exactly even.

"As chairman, I have a casting vote,” said Mr. Armitage. “Being British, I naturally give it to the Br—"

"I demand to have a trial of these powders,” cried the Russian delegate. Mr. Armitage was obliged to give in.

Two young men in white coats came in carrying tins of powder, sprays, and little cages of assorted insects.

"This powder produced by my firm,” said the first of them, “is guaranteed to destroy any insect life within five hundred cubic meters."

"Six hundred cubic meters,” cried the second, putting down his little cage on the table near Mr. Armitage's matchbox. A particularly enormous spider gazed yearningly at Mr. Armitage through the bars. His nerve broke.

"I—I've changed my mind,” Mr. Armitage declared. “I think the Osnovskov powder is undoubtedly the better, and it is also a half penny a ton cheaper. I am going to give my casting vote in favor of it."

Both the young men looked greatly disappointed at losing the opportunity to demonstrate their products. The Russian delegate beamed. “Come out to lunch with me,” he said. “I shall carry you most carefully, and you shall have a thimbleful of vodka and one grain of caviar."

"Mark, you wait here till I come back,” his father instructed him.

Mr. Armitage arrived home in good spirits, singing the “Volga Boat Song,” but his children were most dispirited.

"I've had an awful day,” said Harriet to Mark after supper. “National Savings all morning, and that tea with Mrs. Mildew! Somebody had brought a baby, and it kept grabbing Mother and trying to swallow her!"

"We must certainly get them changed back somehow. What was that idea of yours?"

Harriet jumped up. “I thought we'd go and see Mrs. Lomax,” she said. “Come on—we'll shut the parents in their shoebox and put them in the meat safe so they won't come to any harm."

Mark followed her doubtfully. “I don't see that Mrs. Lomax is likely to help,” he argued. “She wanted to change Father into a tadpole."

"Yes, but that was before Miss Hooting called her a disgrace to the profession. Think how touchy they are."

Dusk was falling when they reached Cobweb Corner, Mrs. Lomax's bungalow. While they were still at the bottom of the garden, they could hear angry voices, and when they came nearer, they saw Miss Hooting and Mrs. Lomax at opposite sides of the path.

"And if you think I'm going to pay you twenty guineas for that cloak, you're greatly mistaken,” Mrs. Lomax was saying furiously. “Who do you think you are, Dior? The hem is five inches off the ground, I shall look a sight. And the hat is too small. I shan't give you a penny more than fifteen. Disgrace to the profession, indeed."

Miss Hooting turned, her face as black as thunder, and swept past the children without noticing them.

Mrs. Lomax pointed a walking stick after her and shouted: “Be a woodlouse,” but nothing happened, and she went inside and slammed the door.

Harriet firmly rung the bell, and when the door flew open again, she looked (with some courage) into Mrs. Lomax's furious face.

"Mrs. Lomax,” she said. “I know you're not very fond of my family, but I think we might strike a bargain. We want our parents back again, and I expect you'd like a new wand, wouldn't you? That one doesn't seem to be much good. Unfortunately the committee has decided that it's not safe to hand out new wands, so they're all being sent back to the Sorcerer's Supply Stores and there's going to be a free library instead. But I know where they are now, and I expect I could borrow one—just for half an hour or so—if you'd promise to turn our parents back into human beings for us."

Mrs. Lomax looked much more friendly.

"I think that might be arranged,” she said. “One can't be too careful over one's associates, and I find I have been quite mistaken in my estimate of Miss Hooting's character. If I can repair any harm she has done to your dear parents, I shall be delighted."

"You stay here and talk to her and see she doesn't change her mind,” hissed Harriet to Mark. So he chatted politely to Mrs. Lomax and looked at her collection of lizards, while Harriet dashed off to the vicar and begged for the loan of one of the wands which he had stored until they could be dispatched back to London. “Just for half an hour,” she pleaded. “While we get Mother and Father changed back. You can't think how we miss them."

"Very well,” he agreed. “But please take care. Once in the wrong hands—"

Harriet ran triumphantly back with a heavy ebony stick.

"That should do,” said Mrs. Lomax, looking at it professionally, and she recited:

"O Stick, well-seasoned, elegant and sage,

Change ladybird and wife to Armitage.

"That should do the trick for you.” Then she went on, rather hastily:

"All fairy ladies, from tonight,

Turn into owls—and serve them right!"

A confused sound of screeching came from the trees. Several owls brushed past them.

"Oh, dear,” Harriet said doubtfully, “I don't think the vicar would like—"

A blue flash wriggled up the stick to Mrs. Lomax's hand, she shrank, her eyes became enormous, and all of a sudden she flew off into the trees, crying: “Tu-whit! Tu-whoo!"

"She's turned herself into one, too,” said Mark. “She shouldn't have said
all
. Oh, well, let's take the wand back to the vicar."

When they reached home, they found their parents completely restored, but still in the meat safe, very cramped and indignant.

"What were you doing out so late, anyway?” asked Mr. Armitage.

The number of owls about the village was found to have greatly increased, and as a good many old ladies had mysteriously vanished, the proceeds of the progressive whist drive and the garden fête were used to buy a cannon to put in the school playground.

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In heaven's name, what is that?” said Mr. Armitage, coming in and finding his wife with a length of scarlet muffler apparently intended for an ostrich dangling from her knitting needles.

"Comforts for the Lifeboatmen,” she told him. “My Women's Union members are making mufflers for the Shambles Lifeboat crew."

Mr. Armitage carefully picked his way through the tangle and sat down in front of the fire, moving a large model yacht to make room for his feet, and eliciting a cry of protest from Mark, who was sitting by the wireless.

"Careful, Father! The paint's not nearly dry yet."

"Christmas holidays,” grumbled Mr. Armitage. “How thankful I shall be when they're over. Mark, turn off that awful voice, will you?"

"But it's interesting,” complained Mark, turning it off. “It was an appeal for more weather ships, and I wanted to find out about them."

"You will have to find out some other way. I want peace and quiet,” said his father unsympathetically. “Lifeboats—weather ships—my family seems to have gone marine crazy."

"Mummy's going for a sail on Monday,” Harriet told him.

"A sail? In December? For mercy's sake, why?"

"It's the Women's Union Christmas Outing,” Mrs. Armitage explained patiently. “We're having the presentation of the mufflers to the lifeboat crew, and then the club members are being taken for a trip out to the Shambles lighthouse, where we shall have tea. The lighthouse keepers are providing the tea and we are providing the food. I'm one of the hostesses this month, so I shall have to get busy."

"Make some of your mince-pies,” said Mr. Armitage. “That'll fetch ‘em. But isn't Monday rather an unwise day for your excursion?"

Monday, in the Armitage family, was a day on which unexpected things were likely to happen—a live Cockatrice had once settled in the garden and eaten up all the vegetables, breathing out fire as he did so, and on another Monday, the Fairy Queen had held At Home on the front lawn, completely preventing any tradesmen from calling for twenty-four hours. The Armitage parents were always relieved when Monday was over, and tried not to embark on any risky venture upon that day if they could help it.

"Can't be avoided this time, I'm afraid,” Mrs. Armitage said, sighing. “It was the only day when all the members could come."

All that week Mrs. Armitage and Harriet were busy making mince-pies. Mark, for once, was not helpful.

"He's making another of his model yachts, I suppose,” Harriet said. “That's why he always comes to meals late with gluey hands."

"You can come on the trip, as you've been such a help, Harriet,” said her mother. “But I shan't ask Mark. That'll teach him to cooperate a bit more next time I'm busy."

Mark did grumble when he heard that he had not been invited. “I've always wanted to see inside the lighthouse,” he said. But as his protests were unavailing, he soon retired to his den and began sawing away.

"Who is the other hostess and what is she providing?” said Mr. Armitage on Saturday, eyeing the growing mountain of mince-pies.

"It's Mrs. Slabb,” his wife said gloomily.

"Oh dear."

"She's making some rock cakes. I tried to persuade her that sandwiches would be nice, but she didn't take the hint. She said she reckoned her cakes would fill up the boys’ stomachs better."

"Fill them up? They'll
cement
them up, more likely,” said Mr. Armitage. “Remember the cake she made for the Guess the Weight Competition at last year's Christmas Bazaar—the only person who guessed within a stone was the Strong Man from the Bumstead Circus."

"Never mind, she's a kind old thing and we can't hurt her feelings,” Mrs. Armitage said firmly.

Monday dawned gray and bleak without a breath of wind.

"Looks like snow,” said Mr. Armitage, but the barometer stood at “Set Fair."

The Women's Union members assembled on the launching ramp punctually at two o'clock for the presentation amid cries of “Did you remember to lock the back door?” and “Are the hens shut up?” from the crew, who were mostly their husbands and relatives.

Mrs. Armitage made a short speech before unveiling the huge cardboard carton which contained the gift mufflers.

"Thank you kindly one and all,” said the coxswain (his name was Alf Putnam), “I hereby have pleasure in handing them out to the men, who I'm sure will thoroughly appreciate them—specially as they've seen them being knitted for the last six months. Bert Althorpe!"

Bert stepped forward to receive his muffler and Alf pulled a generous blue length out of the box, which Bert wound round his neck before stepping back again.

"Hey, you've left one end behind—you haven't got it all yet, chum,” someone called out. As Bert pulled, more and more muffler unreeled from the carton. The blue length was followed by a red one, and that by an orange one.

"Oh dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Armitage in dismay. “Can someone have joined them all together? There's been some bad coordination somewhere."

This, it seemed, was the case. Rods, poles, perches, chains, and furlongs of endless muffler, every colour of the rainbow, were drawn out and lay about the beach and ramp in gorgeous festoons.